Ahoy there.
We slowly poke the permanent sentry.
There is no consolation under the moon
in this, our era of green expressions.
Apropos of nothing,
my hands are sober on the missing barbell,
the roads back to where we came from
are disabled.
Why destabilize my thoughts which, until now,
were like the toad
buried to its chin in cold muck?
The gun, the calm,
you have guzzled down my sweetness.
On television, the great passions
are on parade.
My suffering walks on moccasins
through olive groves,
but only for a time.
I am forever troubled, agitated, disquieted.
When the end is announced,
I drink a final cup of coffee.
I put on a permanent face
stolen from the Museum of Terror.
I stand at attention when I hear the magnificent sound.
I am not repulsed by reptiles or lentils.
I have not been arrested.
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